


Everybody Wants You, Charlie

by lq_traintracks (lumosed_quill)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 10:32:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bill eases Charlie's nerves before a Quidditch match.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everybody Wants You, Charlie

Bill's hands squeeze his shoulders rhythmically as Charlie looks into his brother's eyes and nods again.

"And if that arsehole, Beckett, hits that Bludger at your head again, just take him out like we practiced at home, yeah?" Then he mutters under his breath, "And then I'll fucking break his neck after the game."

Charlie nods, gulping, the nerves in his stomach jumping up into his chest and making his heart feel funny. Bill's hands are strong and reassuring. Charlie closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them, Bill is smiling at him.

"Don't be nervous. You've got this, Charlie."

"Yeah," Charlie agrees sarcastically. "And if I miss the Snitch, it's only the Cup."

"Hey," Bill says. "You're only the bloody best Seeker this school has ever seen. Don't you go forgetting that."

Charlie doesn't answer. Just lets Bill's hands massage the tension out of his neck, shutting his eyes.

"I'm so fucking proud of you, you know that," Bill says softer now.

Charlie manages to nod, even though all he's seeing in his mind's eye is himself plummeting to the pitch, dead of a Bludger to the skull and no Snitch in sight.

Bill's fingers slip into his uniform at the nape of his neck, rubbing slow circles. Charlie feels him step in closer. Bill unbuttons the uniform, just the top buttons, to better access Charlie's tense back, pressing in and moving him back and forth with the slow force of his massage. Charlie stifles a groan.

"You're the star," Bill tells him, his murmuring deep and quiet. "You're the bloody hero, Charlie." Sure hands sliding into his uniform and finding skin, his thumbs ghosting up Charlie's throat. "All the birds want you. All of them, in every year, in every house," Bill goes on. "Everybody wants you, Charlie." He dips his mouth close to Charlie's ear, and Charlie waits for his words before he attempts to breathe. "You're so bloody fast... So damned good..."

Charlie swallows. He opens his eyes to look into Bill's.

"How are the nerves, little brother?" Bill asks.

"I feel like I'm going to fly apart," Charlie confesses. Partly because it's true. Partly for other reasons.

"Do you need it?" Bill says now, like it's nothing -- except there's an edge to his voice, a slight tremble.

Charlie tries not to whimper.

The rest of the team is waiting outside the locker room. They're used to Bill's private pep talks with Charlie.

They are _not_ used to what sometimes follows.

Charlie inhales and holds it. Bill's eyes are dark and warm. His hands hold Charlie's neck, thumbs across his jaw, skimming his earlobes and making him shiver.

He exhales the word. "Yeah." He nods.

Then Bill is drawing him around the corner, into the dank shadows. He presses Charlie's back to the wall, manhandling him. Charlie closes his eyes so he doesn't see his brother sinking to his knees. He can only feel the surety of Bill's hands as they unfasten his robes, part them, and work on his trousers.

Charlie leans his head back against the wall, eyes closed, mouth shut, throat working. And Bill pulls his cock out, already raging hard. Charlie adjusts his stance, feet a little wider, boots making a loud scuffling sound on the tile floor.

Then Bill wraps his mouth around Charlie's willing cock, and he slides it all...the way...down...

Charlie bangs his head back into the tile as Bill's throat opens for him and the swallowing is like the tightest fist Charlie's ever felt. He pops out again and slides through Bill's wet mouth, over his tongue, between his lips, almost all the way out. Except that Bill holds his hips so that Charlie can't move, and he does it all again.

He bobs slow and confident along every throbbing inch of Charlie's cock. Bill is methodical and unhurried and so bloody good at it. Charlie doesn't dare touch him. Instead he makes fists at his sides and huffs loud breaths through his nose like an angry bull. Bill's thumbs run back and forth over the curly coarse hair around his cock.

The crowd is cheering through the wall. Charlie can hear his teammates talking. Everything is muted, though: tight and dizzy. Charlie opens his eyes and looks down at his big brother, his mouth full of ruddy cock. Bill blinks his gaze up to Charlie's once. Saliva runs down his chin. He blinks back down and speeds up. Charlie's lips part, but the sound gets stuck in his throat. His bollocks draw up, and as he releases ropes of warm come into Bill's mouth, he closes his eyes and leans his head back once more, trembling, banging a fist into the tile once, shuddering.

Bill swallows it. He always swallows it. And he leaves Charlie's cock almost slowly, letting his swollen lips distend around the head while his tongue finds and probes Charlie's piss slit.

Then he lets it fall heavy out of his mouth, and he stands. He looks into Charlie's eyes as he refastens his trousers and robes for him. "Better?" he says.

Charlie inhales long and exhales measuredly. His body feels loose and good. His tendons have relaxed, but his muscles feel warm and tingly. His legs are no longer shaking, and his heart is thudding a hard, steady rhythm against his ribs. He looks into Bill's eyes and nods.

Bill smiles almost paternally and smacks him heartily in the arm once. "Go kill them then," he says with a little wink. Like it's not completely cocked up for brothers to suck each other's cocks.

Not that Charlie has sucked Bill's.

Not like he wants to. Or thinks of it even. 

This is just Bill's thing. It's just one of the ways he takes care of Charlie. And Charlie will never tell him no. He can't ever bring himself to want to.

Bill takes him now, an arm around the shoulders, and leads him toward the entrance. The cheering of the crowd gets exponentially louder with every step they take.

Then finally Bill gives him a little shove, says, "Make me proud, Charlie," and then Charlie is grabbing his broom and joining the others.

They're banging him on the back, and they're taking the pitch. When Charlie's feet touch the grass, the cheering explodes. He looks around the stands, at the pale grey sky pressing down. He walks to the middle of the pitch and shakes hands with Beckett, his own grip strong to the point of pain. He can see it in Beckett's grimace.

Charlie just shoots him a smile.

Then on three, two, one -- he kicks off, piercing the grey, soaring into the sun, fast and hard, the high of it a physical bliss, suffusing his skin -- everywhere Bill touched.

Charlie's flying.


End file.
